A killer’s mind rewritten
by Lee the boy in blue box
Summary: Rewrite of my first Bond fic, little different story to it.  I hope its better than the original.  Don’t forget to review.
1. Prelude

Authors Note: I wrote this story when I first joined fanfiction (about a year ago) and just thought why not rewrite it, because I saw how many grammar and spelling mistakes I had. And I was unhappy with the ending and felt my summery was a bit misleading, (If anyone who looked at the original version of this story has any suggestions or requests story wise please PM) (email) me at my profile. If I make any New Yorkers mad I am truly and deeply sorry I've been their once and I was too young to remember.

A killer's mind (rewritten)

By Lee's Ghost

Prelude: A murder in New York

It was just one those days when you thought you had landed smack dab in the middle of the desert. Perhaps the only thing that kept New Yorkers sane was the welcoming sight of the red fire hydrants spiting out clear towers of water onto the boiling hot tar street. Children wide-eyed and toothless danced around them like Lakota around their campfires after a buffalo hunt. A girl of not more nine shirked as she fell in a puddle, and scampered off toward her mother's loving arms and promise of fresh clothes. Some older teens leaning against a warn brick of apartment building with cigarettes clamped between their cracked lips shouted with joy as the red needle on a thermometer crawled a few inches away from the ninety mark. A boy dashed down the street after a baseball that bounced down a hill that sloped toward Manhattan. The scrams of tires could be heard as a taxi driver slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting the boy. He uttered a curse under his breath when the boy dashed to the safety of the sidewalk.

Cars flew by the venders on the crowed streets scramming "Hotdogs get your Hotdogs." Or "Get your _I love New York_ t-shirts." This was all an attempt to lour the sea of tourist that invaded the city each summer away from the main eating and shopping centers and to their carts were they could dig deep into strangers pockets. Another sight the traffic ignored was a young woman nudging her way the mass of short sleeve clad people that were tying to find the famous sights they heard so much about. As she brushed back her long brown a businessman whistled. She gave him reproachful because his snow-white hair, prune textured skin and horn rimed bifocals made him old enough to be her grandfather.

Her hair dangled down to the small of back and her bangs stopped just short her gleaming green eyes. The hotness of the day made her sweat and it slid down her peach colored face and slipped into her shirt. Some men her age gawked at the sweat gleaming her, and wondered silently if she was some kind of model. She moved on ignoring their stares and trudged onward gazing fondly at the speck in the distance that was little Italy.

She hurried along the street until the skyscrapers became distant silver lines against horizon. She came a small one-story shop. There was a sign nailed to the roof that said _Kindler's meat_. As she closed the door behind her a tiny bell rang. A plump man dressed in a blood-spattered apron, with tick featly red hair and thin well-trimmed mustache looked up and set down his stained claver.

"Hey, little sis' what you do'n all the way out here?" asked the man in his musical Irish accent.

"Well, it is your birthday, you should have someone to celebrate it with," she said caringly.

"Ya know you're right, Mr. Garheart ordered a tenderloin, but after that, we could call Laura and Maria and have a couple drinks," he said glad that his sister had saved him from the boredom of a TV dinner knock off and falling asleep to Jay Leno.

"Hum… Three girls and one guy?" she asked.

"Well, I'm not goanna pay for sex on my birthday," he said laughing the expression of loathing on her face.

"Hey there both nice girls," she said defending her two best friends.

"_Sure_ they are," he said smiling.

"_Asshole_," she retorted while pretending to sneeze.

"Why don't you go up to my room," he said eyeing two men making their why toward the shop. "Because _you_ don't have any people skills, and guess what? I finely got Direct TV!"

"Oh, _really_?" she clapped in mock excitement.

She headed up the rotting steps to her bother's room and lay on the bed halfheartedly watching an episode of _that 70s show_. The bell on the door chimed and there was sound of hard footsteps on the wooden floor. They seemed hard and measured like they were fallowing a precise path.

Her ears perked up as she heard bother yell in fiery rage, just what she couldn't tell. She quietly peered round the wall too see two dark figures pointing handguns at her bothers head and chest. An idea to scream was building up inside her and was traveling is throat, so she held a sweaty palm to her lips.

"What is it Kindler?" demeaned the man pointing the gun at his head in a gruff uncompassionate voce that echoed of John Wayne.

"Yeah, you know he doesn't like it when things are late," said the other man coldly

"Well you tell _him_ that he can kiss my ass!" he roared. "Why are you here? Are you his pets or something?"

"Maybe he hid them up stairs John," suggested the other man.

"You'll go up there over my dead body!" growled the girl's bother.

"Have it your way then," said the man.

The man reached for his trigger and put a bullet through his head. They started for the staircase but stopped at the sound of sirens. They ran out the door and drove away as fast as they could.

The girl waited until she heard the sound squealing tiers and wept. Because her only brother was dead.


	2. The Kindler crisis

Chapter 2 The Kindler crisis

A heavy fog loomed over MI6 like a rain cloud, hiding the large square building and the soft grassy hills that were clustered around it like great towering mountains. James Bond was parched on a bench in the deserted fenced in courtyard with a fat cigar slotted in between his trembling fingers. His green eyes shown like bight lanterns as he stared out into the cold, clear, lake that was before him. He was searching for the thin, ghostlike, shadows of the sailboats bound to be gliding back into port in the terrible weather. He could not see them, but he perked up his ears incase a horn whined in the night, it would some sign he was not alone in this world of perfect bleakness.

Most days he sat around thinking of how well he had done in his early years. It been a long stretch of seven boring months since he had recuperated from the wounds received on his last mission, and still no orders came and he was beginning to feel un-useful. The feeling was driving him mad and he wanted to run away from it all, but deep down he knew he could never do it; he had just become too accustomed to what his career choice had made him.

In truth he could see why M had not summoned him. Each day there were younger, faster, smarter, stronger, and stealthier 00s joining the ranks and he was having a hard time beating them in training. He puffed hard on his cigar trying to lose himself in an old memory of a pretty girl. Smiling wildly to him self rather like a serial killer does just before he starts his craft, he wished vainly for the Cold War to be still on and the nightmare that was the 21st century to all have been part of his imagination. Those were the good days he thought, nothing but him and a Communist madman between the fate of the free world.

The clear and kind voice of Moneypenny being ejected from the walkie-talkie inside his watch broke him away from his daydreams.

"Calling 007, calling 007," said Moneypenny in her sweet voice.

"007 here, what do you want?" asked Bond a note of bitterness in his low voice.

"There's an assignment in M's office for you," she said in a businesslike tone. "She said it was something only _you_ could handle."

A smile cracked across his lips and he said with his old confidence, "Right, Bond out." He ran up the steps toward the oak door to M's office and pounded hard on it with his right hand.

"Come in 007," said a weak sounding M.

Her lank frame was seated behind her filled desk and she gazed up when the doorknob started to turn forcefully. A glass of Bourbon was clenched in her right hand and a remote in the other.

"Sit down, James," she said indicating the chair on the opposite side of the desk. "Drink?"

"Always." She slid a glass toward him and he sipped it gratefully.

"What I'm about to tell you is strictly confidential," she said pressing the remote until photograph flickered onto the screen above M's head. "This _was_ 008."

Bond studied the photograph for long a moment and his stomach reeled around dangerously. A tall man with blond hair, blue eyes and a rosy pink skin stared back at him. The man seemed perfectly normal expect for the fact there was bullet hole in his forehead.

"As you may recall, he was discharged after near fatal wounding last June," said M dryly. "He was able to adjust to civilian life quite quickly, he opened a butcher shop, looked after his sister attending NYU, and the only problem was the silicate that he was hunting got his name."

"So, there was a leak?" asked Bond putting the pieces together.

"Precisely," she said in her usual tone. "But he was employed by the War Department of the United States, and no one in HMSS knew what his mission was, and our friends in Washington are denying everything."

"Sounds like an international secret keeping contest. Where do I fit in all this?" asked Bond skeptically.

"As you can tell the situation is very delicate right now and I need some one I can trust, to find out what 008 was doing in America, and who was responsible for his death."

"How?" M pushed the remote and the photograph changed to a young woman. She was wearing a black blouse and tight blue genes, and a winter white smile was spread across her wide marshmallow lips.

"This is 008's sister Emily, she witnessed her brother's death, and is our link to him," she said hoping Bond understood the meaning of her words.

"You think he could have let her in on his mission?" asked Bond somewhat surprised.

"Its possible," sighed M wishing she could know for sure. "But do be careful, we bank everything on this and if anything goes wrong you could be killed by the American government."

"I'll try not to be," he assured her.

"Oh, last thing, don't get the girl bloody pregnant."

Bond smiled and pretended not to hear her because he knew the girl most be undeniably beautiful.

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	3. The master and the puppet

Chapter 3 The master and the puppet

It was a chilly night; all the countryside was quiet and unwelcoming. The flat ground was covered in a soft carpet of shadow that was caused by the overhanging trees. Stars glittered in the unobstructed sky pervading the only source of light. A lone farmhouse stood naked on the edge of a vast sea of cornfields and stared its uneasy grin at the land around it.

It was not a happy house, not kind of place you would wander toward during a winter storm. It was far from it. The stone foundation was cracked and crumbling; pales of rubble rested in the long green grass that looked like it hadn't been tended to in years. The weather beaten screen door, hung off its hinges, and shrieked with agony as the wind battered up angst it. The windows were broken in some places and the wind hollowed through them giving the house an icy feel and the presence of some great evil.

In the top left window a single light glowed casting a thin strip of light down on the gravel littered driveway. A man stared out at the driveway scowling, his blue eyes were burning with a fierce furry. He was tall, lean, with spiky hair that looked like Bart Simpson's. A thin mustache covered his upper lip that matched his fiery red hair. His eyes narrowed as a black Doge clambered up the road, spraying rocks out from under its tiers as it slid to a stop in front of the house.

A elderly man of forty with a balding patch of gray-black hair thrust himself out of the driver seat and began the slow descent up to the house. Sagging under the weight of brown briefcase he hobbled along until he reached the front door. The man at the window did not move when he heard the top stair creek. Slowly he turned as the doorknob jiggled and placed his long fingered hands behind his back.

"Mr. Blake, what do I owe to your visit?" asked the man conveying he didn't get the slightest bit pleasure from their meeting.

"News, Zae, bad news," said Blake trying to stay as clam as he could while Zae's eyes bore into his brain. Zae settled him self into a massive green armchair across from a crackling fire and pressed his fingers together. After a long cold silence he said in a low loathing tone, "what news have you brought?"

The man paced the room for a moment as if trying to find the least harmful words. Zae stared at Blake for a moment and cocked his head forward like a snake going for the kill. A voice that spoke of nothing but coldness met his ear. "I am waiting."

"Well," said Blake with a light chuckle. "It seems my men were apprehended after they fled the scene."

"What?" roared Zae his temper flaring uncontrollably.

"Yes," said Blake feeling the need to explain the situation further. "They were captured by the NYPD late this morning." He threw a copy of the _New York Times_ on the table beside Zae. Zae thundered when he peered at the headline. It read: Two men reasonable for killing former MI6 agent await trial 

"It's only a miner setback, sir," said Blake trying to sooth his boss.

"Miner setback!" he roared knocking over a row of books as he stood up and grabbed Blake's windpipe. "You're death would be a minor setback, they could spill everything it could blow the whole operation!"

"I'm s-sorry," cried Blake struggling to get free. Zae threw him to ground and retook seat the white-hot fear and hatred still gleaming in his eyes.

"I almost forgot," said Blake desperately trying to redeem him self. "MI6 dispatched an agent to help protect Emily Kindler."

"She's still alive!" he flared again knocking over a wineglass and rising again. "Are you that incompetent that you can't carry out the simplest orders?"

"T-the police arrived, what were my boys supposed to do?" asked Blake knowing the answer was something he didn't want to hear.

"You _should_ have told them to fight them, it's what anyone with decent amount of brains would've done," he said lowering his voice to a low growl. "Who's this agent anyway?"

"A James Bond, sir," said Blake relighting the unfamiliar name carefully.

"Hum… What do we know about this Mr. Bond?" asked Zae not really caring; he would fight whoever kept him from his goal.

"Apparently, he is the best they have, a real legend in the service," he said lunching into one of his longwinded reports.

"We shall see about that," he snuffed trying to see if there was some weakness in the man. "Do go on."

"He took down SMERSH, and other Communist organizations, as well as members of the Mafia, and sometimes just plain madmen," he said shaking his oversized head. "But other than that not much about him is known."

"Have you been able to detect a weakness?" Asked Zae rubbing his large noise.

Blake grinned and chirped in an excited voice, "a good woman and a warm bed."

"A womanizer eh?" he asked almost laughing as the plan of action became clear. "Bless you Blake, I think there's an opportunity here, in time you shall see I am the master and he is the puppet."


	4. A word with Felix

Chapter 4 A word with Felix

Bond was forced back in his seat as the gears of the jumbo jet met the runway. He stretched his long arms and folded his page he was reading in _Birds__ of the West Indies_. A blond flight attendant wondered the narrow passage between the velvet seats collecting empty cups. Pulling himself up he walked out the door toward the front entrance of the terminal.

The brightness of the day met his eyes and held a hand to shield his sleep-deprived features. He walked the length of sidewalk toward baggage clam with his right hand submerged deep into his breast pocket making sure his Walter PPK still remind untouched. Feeling inside his gray suet coat he pulled out his case of cigars and lit one and leaned against the cream colored wall. A man at the far end of the airport waved at him cheerily and waded through the people dashing from place to place.

He was a tall man with flattened brown hair and tan skin. Four years in the Marines had made him look as though he could take down a man with one punch. Beaming at his old friend he said in his familiar Texan accent, "I see you're still alive."

"Always an optimist aren't you Felix," Bond retorted, and held out his free hand.

"Yup that's me," he said grinning and slapping James on the back. "You hungry?"

"I could do with some _real_ food after that rubbish on the plane," he said feeling that his stomach had expanded five times its normal size since he had last eaten. Felix laughed at Bond's typical British wit and guided him toward a small coffee shop on the street corner.

It was small place with booths lining the window. A waitress clambered up and down the narrow space between tables with incredible speed. She pointed Bond and Felix to a small table closest to ageing glass window. Bond sat down, ordered a cup of tea and sighed.

"What's wrong James?" asked Felix pulling his eyes away from the thin text on the menu.

"One of _our _agents was killed here about a month ago and we don't know why," Bond said gloomily.

"I knew it had something with Kindler," he smiled at last understanding why the two had bumped into each other in New York's largest airport. "You better be careful, the government is real touchy about it."

"Any lead?" Asked Bond knowing there would be none.

"Well," said Felix trying to use the right words. "We can't say yet." He tore open a packet of sugar and shook it into his swirling black coffee.

"But can you?" pressed Bond slamming the butt of his fork on the table.

"Not if I want a bullet in my back," he said and sipped his coffee.

"Can you tell me anything?" asked Bond hopelessly. He hated the new distance between Britain and America. What happened to the good old days?

"About the origination that killed your guy? No. But nobody said anything about the girl."

"What do you know?" asked Bond a sudden thought creeping into his mind. She could describe the attackers and MI6 could find out whom they worked for.

"She's at a safe house in New Jersey," he said writing the address on a napkin. "Be careful its under heavy CIA guard."


End file.
